Too many worlds have collapsed beneath its feet. Its fist always the decider, and always the final silencer. Each new day brings fresh blood, spilled upon mountains of decayed flesh and bones that have collected over the centuries. Yet, this was not its choice. This was not its decision. This was the doing and the plight of the smallest minded sentient creatures it has even known. Humanity sickens it sometimes, even as it intrigues it so. So, again and again, it has settled and repeated on the worlds whim, looking for new reasons to spare them.
Some call it god, some call it devil, but it is neither. It is alone, unseen and unheard in the eyes and ears of humanity. It is neither male or female nor son or daughter; it claims no identity as trivial as this. It knows what the truth is, the truth that these humans refuse to accept. The world is without reason. The world is random, and without cause. Even it cannot control the world, but only to occupy the cleansing alone. Yet, the humans place blame and praise on it without fail, and sadly, without the knowledge that they even do so. It now just wants to rest. It wants to let go of the chains tying it to this duty. It goes to slumber thinking this, and in dreams wishes it were true.
What is it, with the loss of direction in this flock of pedestrians. They coddle themselves in a blanket of sound waves and cell towers waiting to beam their stupidity to the masses. Yet, a single flower waiting to bloom never gets watered. The line formed from everyday stencils and clay face graphing, is an intellectual hole vanquished in fluidity by a ravenous duplicity, and at a moments notice it falls like rain drops upon glass. So true is it, that as one stays the other goes, and the empty space left becomes particles in an infinite web of zeros and souls. Empty as they may be, it isn’t the choice of a madman but, rather, the insolence of madmen too childish to remain engrossed in their own sufferance, that the entire static alignment bares a heavy weight. Thus, crushing the poor ignorant bastards that have been left behind.
What is it, with these battered beings and their self-inflicted wounds. Those who peddle wares upon stars made beyond plastic moons, and pour depravity upon salted vines of red. It is no doubt the better of the two, to have flesh rather than paper, picture or screen, you know, things. The housing is faulty though, and it only takes but a flicker of movement to ignite an empowered movement, giving rise to validation and lament. So it is, a lengthy road one must wander, if ever one is to find truth beyond oneself. Cold as it may be, it is that hunger and want that feeds all other false pretense, and the shallow will inherit all they have come to expect. Thus, separating the platitudes from desperate fools and giving rise to an ever-increasing forest of bitterness.